


You're certainly... enthusiastic.

by a beta perspective (Ejunkiet)



Series: The (Research) Internship [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, Best Worst Decisions, Intoxication, M/M, Mutual Pining, Science Bros, Sciencey AU, Slow Burn, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Worst Supervisor Ever (this should be a tag), hangovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2014-09-11
Packaged: 2018-02-15 22:14:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2245221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ejunkiet/pseuds/a%20beta%20perspective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The happy college AU – where werewolves are relegated purely to the realm of myth and crappy B-movies, and Stiles and Derek are research interns, working under the tyrannical dictatorship of <i>Dr. Harris</i>. </p><p>--</p><p>“<i>You.</i> You are not funny. You are not <i>allowed</i> to be funny.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part one

**Author's Note:**

> AKA How two idiots met, became friends, fell for each other and wound up living together. In separate rooms. This is set two years prior to ‘Miss me when I’m gone’, but as this is a prequel, you don’t need to read the previous one first. It's been labelled 'mature' for drunken mishaps in part two.
> 
> This has been _finished_ , you'll be pleased to hear; although it may still undergo tweaks by my wonderful beta [ebk](http://evilbunnyking.tumblr.com/).

_“Enthusiasm_ , Hale. I need to know that you want to be here. Don’t you want to be here?”  
  
He’s here during the first few weeks of summer break after finishing his exams, measuring the oxygen consumption of fish embryos in a basement lab within the anatomy building. A sarcastic ‘would I be here at nine o’clock on a Friday night if I wasn’t’ feels appropriate, but it won’t win him any favours with the locals. Neither would punching the other lab intern, trying and failing to muffle his sniggers in the stained sleeve of his lab coat. Why it was Derek,  _again_ , getting a lecture from their supervisor and not  _Stilinski_ , the over-excitable hurricane of careless limbs and energy who had narrowly avoided electrocuting himself during experimental set-up last week - was beyond him.

(Derek was convinced it was Stilinski who was responsible for the fire alarm before lunch today. Come to think of it, the one they had day before was equally suspect. How the kid had managed to get away with so much was beyond him.)  
  
“I do, sir.”

"Then act like it. This is a valuable opportunity for you -" here he swivels on his heel, but miraculously, Stilinski is looking normal, for once; "-  _two_  to gain some experience running your own projects. You showed the interest, now work for it.”

He pivots neatly and makes his way across the lab as Stilinski raises an amused brow at his retreating back. Derek straightens his shoulders and makes his way past stiffly, trailing behind him until they reach his workstation and Stiles sidles right up beside him.

“ _So_. What’d you do to set him off this time?”

The vein in his temple throbs, and Derek has to put down his things and breathe for a moment. When Derek does turn to face him, his expression must show some of what he is feeling at the moment, as Stilinski takes a step back, raising his hands as he adds: “not that I think you did anything, really. The guy’s a douchebag; he’s just looking for an excuse to vent.”

“He’s definitely not acting like a professional.”

Derek turns back to his bench, changing his gloves and grimacing at the stickiness of his fingers before he resumes clearing his workstation. After a moment, Stilinski –  _Stiles_ , he preferred Stiles - lowers his backpack and pitches in too, slipping on a pair of gloves and changing the biohazards bag, placing the tied-off old one by the bench while he fetches a new one. Derek pauses, watching his turned back as he finishes and slips off a glove, moving to carry the old bag towards the door, and – eventually – the dumpster outside - trying to parse him out.

It’s not as if they’d talked much during Derek’s time here; he’d gathered that Stiles was a summer student, pitching in between shifts of his part-time job, but they’d spent most of the time working on different projects. Despite that, Stiles had still managed to be a pain in his ass from day one, responsible for the majority of the mishaps around the lab that Derek would inevitably get the blame for – and with his smart mouth and penchant for mischief, Stilinski had earned his a reputation as a menace. Derek honestly doesn't know what to do with this side of him.

When Stiles gets back, Derek has just about decided on the best method of handling the enigma: ignoring it _._ Except- Stiles doesn’t seem to have the same idea, as he is returning to his previous position, leaning his weight comfortably against Derek’s bench and watching as Derek wipes down the surfaces between them. There’s a smirk playing on his lips when Derek’s cloth reaches his elbow, blinking innocently in the face of Derek’s glare before he pushes off from the desk, moving to a stool and swiveling to face him.

“So." 

Derek glances up from where he was previously engaged in carefully stacking up empty embryo dishes when he doesn't continue, shooting him an exasperated look.

"Yes?"

"You never mentioned what happened earlier.”

He watches Stiles for several long moments, before exhaling in a long sigh. It’s not like it’s any sort of secret, but that doesn't mean he's particularly eager to discuss the details. Stiles is watching him though, legs swinging idly from his perch, obviously waiting - and it doesn't look as if Derek is going to have much of a choice. He turns back to the lab bench, bracing himself against the surface and considers walking away from this conversation.

There isn’t much point.

“There was an issue with the probes. They’re reading a different starting level, which means the internal membranes need replacing.” A brief glance back at Stiles face tells Derek that he’s not entirely following, and he lets out another sigh, collecting the stack of embryo dishes before he turns to face him fully, raising a brow as he elaborates: “it means we need to buy new ones."

Stiles expression clears. “Ah. Money, then.”

“Yep _. Money_.”

"Stingy bastard." Derek lets out a snort, turning his back on Stiles again before he begins to make his way across the room. He catches Stiles wry smile as he reaches the other side of the lab, a crooked upturned corner of his mouth. "Hell, at least he’s paying you."

Derek shoots Stiles a glance over his shoulder from where he's hovering over the sink, trying to work out the logistics with an armful of dishes cradled carefully against his chest. “What gave you that idea?"

Stiles lets out a laugh before he seems to realise that Derek  _isn’t_ joking and his expression sobers. “Wait. Seriously?  You’re a graduate, and he’s not paying you for this work?”

Derek comes to a decision, shifting the dishes into one arm as he plugs the sink, turning on the tap – he’d not used any chemicals, it’d be easier to let them soak overnight. Once the water level has reached several inches deep, he deposits the dishes to the side of the sink, twisting his head to pitch his voice over his shoulder. “ _Technically,_ I’ve not graduated yet. I have one more month."

"Shit."

Stiles voice is closer this time, and Derek turns to find him a couple feet behind him, a hovering presence by the fume cupboard, mouth dropped half open and eyes wide with surprise.

 "Why is this so surprising? You’re not getting paid either.”  
  
Stiles shakes his head, tangling a hand in his hair as he tries to run his hands through the strands and gets them caught, adding more disorder to the mess of his hairstyle. He'd had gel in it this morning, as he had every morning, but it meant little by the end of the day due to the number of times he ran his hands through it. His hair always looked like a wild mess. “Just, I thought it was just the juniors he wasn’t bothering to pay."

He leans backwards against a nearby bench, his eyes bright as he considers Derek again, and Derek turns back to the sink, sinking his gloved hands into the lukewarm water and ignoring the flush that burns at the back of his neck under the scrutiny.

It's not long before Stiles throws him another question, his tone pensive. "What are you still doing here?”

“I’ve been here five years. Co-terminal masters. My rent doesn’t run out until September; I heard about this and thought, what the hell.” Derek raises a shoulder in half a shrug, grabbing the first dish and scrubbing lightly at the grooves on its surface, that looked - yep, permanent. They’d have to throw it out. More money spent replacing equipment, and yet another excuse for Harris to berate him. He tries to reign in his anger as he pulls it from the stack and tosses it into the biohazards bin. “I wasn’t quite ready to leave just yet.”

"Hell, this place looked good on paper. It'd be great if it wasn’t for Sir Tyrant, there. What an asshole."

Derek is startled into a laugh as he finishes examining the rest of the dishes - which are fine, thank god - and places them in the water, slipping off his gloves and chucking them into the trash. Well, he couldn’t argue with him there. “Yeah, he is.”

Stiles breaks into a grin from where he’s at some point splayed himself half-across the now-cleared work bench, before he gives a sigh, hopping off the table and getting to his feet. He brushes Derek’s shoulder lightly as he passes, giving a thumbs up and a wink when Derek eyes him with a frown.

“Buck up big guy! That’s you done, right? Want to grab a drink with me? I think we’ve earned it.”

Derek pauses, breaking from his last survey of his work area to glance at the younger man, narrowing his eyes at Stiles' easy smile. “What’s the catch?”

“What? It’s just a drink! No strings attached, I promise.”

Derek has every reason to distrust him, but something about the way Stiles looks: earnest, a small, honest smile playing on the edges of his lips as he fiddles with the strings of hoodie, breaks through to him; Stiles reminds him of himself, during his first few years of university.

“Please?”

And if he's honest with himself, a drink sounds like a really good idea right now.

A genuine grin breaks across Stiles features as if he senses the moment Derek relents and gives him a short nod. His excitement is almost palpable, buzzing in the air as they make their way to the lab's office together, and Derek pauses at the threshold, throwing a glance back at Stiles.

“I can't stay late," he warns, but Stiles doesn't look surprised, his smile unwavering as he leans against the other side of the door frame. He pulls a phone out of his pocket, an old model nokia that was probably invented before internet capability was a feature, spinning it idly between his fingers as his lips twist into a smirk.

“I didn't think you could. I think I remember someone mentioning you’d be out for the next week. Some big get-together?”

Derek is not surprised that he knows about it - he _had_ told the lab at the beginning of the week - but he is somewhat surprised that Stiles had remembered. Stiles had a tendency to come and go in the lab, the demands on his time less stringent than Derek's, and he didn't think he'd paid much attention to the rest of the group.

He doesn't dwell on it, instead moving forward into their shared office to collect the rest of his things, Stiles presence hovering at his back.

\--

Derek's just grabbing his coat when he hears a ‘ping’ of a phone notification, and he glances back to see Stiles checking his messages, idly twisting the strap of his bag in his grip with the other. In fact, he’s dressed and ready to leave, his lab bench cleared half an hour ago. He must have hung back after the others left, waiting for him specifically -- and again, Derek finds himself at a loss.

 Why didn't he leave earlier?

He can't parse out Stiles' motivations, and it's easier to just cut to the chase. Straightening with his bag slung over one shoulder, he turns to catch Stiles gaze from across the room, gesturing at the empty office.

“Why are you still here? You didn't have to wait for me -- you could have grabbed a drink with the other interns before they left for the weekend.”

“I heard the lecture, and thought you could use a pint of something. I live close, like, walking distance, so it’s no biggie.” His smile wavers, growing sheepish as breaks away from Derek's gaze, staring down at his shoes awkwardly. “And maybe I wanted a chance to see you outside of the lab."

Derek tries to speak up at that, but Stiles raises a hand, flashing him a quick look that says _wait._ There's a steely light in his gaze and a stubborn set to his jaw, as if he expects a fight. "You haven't joined the group meet-ups once. You always hang back, spend your evenings here. I was hoping to change that."

He rolls his shoulders in a shrug, and finally looks away. "But, you know, I'm not forcing you to come out and have a drink with me.”

Derek's brows furrow into a frown, and he can't help feeling defensive as he crosses his arms over his chest. "It's not that. It just threw me.”

Stiles watches him for a long moment before he finally releases his lower lip from where he'd been toying with it with his teeth.

“That someone would want to get to know you?” His lips twitch into a small smile, before he gives his head a shake and his shoulders slump, losing the tension that had built there just like that. "That's funny."

The urge to roll his eyes to that is too great, and Derek gives into it wholeheartedly, forcing a laugh out of Stiles as a smile turns up the edges of his mouth again.

"So, you _do_ want to come?" He twists his fingers together in front of him, the old battered phone spinning between his fingers once more.

"I said yes, didn't I?"

He nods again, even as his features soften, losing that defensive edge. “I do. Where do you want to go?”

“The bar on campus should still be open.”

“Are you sure? We could try somewhere else.”

Derek eyes him for a moment. “I really don’t think I have as much money as you think I do.”

Stiles glances at him askance, before sticking his tongue out between his teeth. “You know, that’s not the reason why I asked, but fine. The local watering hole it is.”

\--

Drinks go surprisingly well, although the campus bar is still the loud, stinking brew-house it’s always been.

They’re lucky though, and manage to find an empty booth in a relatively clean corner of the bar where the music isn’t quite so loud and they can actually hear themselves talk. Alcohol helps with the initial awkwardness, but by the second round of the cheapest pints on campus, they're talking freely about anything and everything: the worst moments with their project supervisor; their favourite lecturers on campus. After the third round, the subject turns to sport, and it turns out Stiles played Lacrosse through high school. Stiles is fascinated by the fact that Derek's sport had been basketball, and when he mentions he'd played a game when his number was called up from the reserves during the first year of his undergrad, Stiles spends the rest of the hour peppering him with questions about it, and his reasons for not keeping it up.  
  
When Stiles glances at his phone, cursing and clapping his hands together in apology with pleas of roommate agreements and time-locked security systems before belting it out the door, Derek isn't really surprised to find himself missing the company.

Finishing up, he glances at the clock above the bar, and he is surprised at how late it is. He’s going to be lucky to get a full eight hours before he hits the road tomorrow, and that’s if he leaves now and jogs back. He’s already decided to pick up the Camaro from the lab in the morning. He’s lucky he really does live just off campus.

Time to go. He gives a roll of his shoulders, leaving a modest tip on the sticky surface of the bar before he hits the road.

\--

“No, I don’t think you  _do_  understand. Stop, Hale. Just stop.”

Derek looks at him aghast, then back at the list of reagents in his lab book, the calculations for their working solutions partially complete beside them.

“Sir..?”

“That’s enough for today. Pack it away, you’re out of time. We’ll pick this up again next week.”

Derek nods, and turns to leave before his name is called again.

“And Derek? I hope you aren’t expecting a good reference from me.”

Gritting his teeth, Derek gives a short nod before continuing forward, listening as the door of his supervisor’s office clicks shut behind him. When he’s sure he’s out of his supervisor’s line of sight, he collapses against the nearest lab bench, fisting his fingers into his hair.

“Fuck.”

It’s a Friday night; the first after his week break, and anything that possibly could go wrong has gone wrong. Someone had fiddled with the settings of his equipment over the week he’d been gone – he suspected one of the newer interns after he found a labelled pen lid (and just  _how many_  interns was Harris going to bring into his lab, anyway? He clearly hated them all; at least, all of them aside from that one student, the awkwardly studious British transfer who dyed her hair ridiculous colours) – and identifying and fixing the problem had resulted in the loss of the entire day. Harris was not pleased.

To top it all off, during the time he’d spent trying to fix an issue  _he hadn’t caused_ , something else had gone wrong on the other side of the lab, and they’d lost a member of their breeding stock. It was one of the few they'd brought back from Asia the previous summer, and as the most senior lab-member, Harris had made him responsible for the upkeep of the stocks within the lab.

Derek had a feeling he was at risk of losing his job. He couldn’t see how this day could really get any worse.

He’s bent over the sink scrubbing furiously at an embryo dish when he feels the presence of someone else behind him. He isn’t surprised – although he should be- when he sees Stilinski, fingers wiggling in a small wave, one gloved hand clutching a fistful of spatulas, and Derek shuffles over a few steps so he can reach the faucet.

Stiles steps in with a grateful smile, bumping their shoulders together companionably, a line of heat against Derek’s side. “Hey, buddy. How’s it going?”

“I’m considering drinking the entire contents of the fume cupboard.”

“That bad, huh?”

“You have no idea.”

“Well, I have a proposition for you that could make your day. First off: do you have any plans for this evening?”

 “Aside from job hunting? No.”

Stiles smirks, leaning in closer as he glances around conspiratorially, although they are the only people left in the lab and have been for quite a while. “There’s a new place, just opened on the outskirts of town that I’ve been dying to try. They boast that their beer selection is the best in the state.”

Derek stacks the glassware on the drying rack before turning to lean against the sink, glancing at Stiles, considering. “Is that so.”

Stiles wiggles an eyebrow in response, gesturing at the stack of washing left to do. “I’ll even help you out with the last of this, and buy the first round.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

It doesn’t take long for them to finish up: Stiles taking care of the last of the washing as Derek carefully dehydrates the dead fish for later; he needed a specimen for sectioning and embedding for a series of stains he wanted to try anyway, and he might as well make the most of a shitty situation. When it’s in the freezer and the door to the lab has swung shut behind them, the day is finally  _over_. The tension leaves his shoulders and neck, and he feels as if he can breathe easily for the first time that day.

The bar is just off the main highway on the outskirts of the town, a little independently owned bar named  _Emmet’s_ , a few stops down the line from the night bus that serves the area. Before they catch the bus across town, Derek drops his things into the trunk of the Camaro, watching as Stiles heads to the beat up jeep Derek had been side-eyeing for weeks. It doesn’t surprise him to learn that Stiles is the owner of that blue monstrosity, and he’s smugly pleased at the noises Stiles makes when he joins Derek by the Camaro (“ _Dude._ I see you jogging into work most mornings. Why the hell would you bother when you drive a beast like  _that?!_ ”).

Emmet’s is a small establishment decorated in dark wood furnishings, gold embellishments and leather sofas, with a bar that runs the entire length of the back wall and a busy team of bar staff . True to his word, Stiles covers the first round, managing to squeeze himself onto a corner of the bar and waving at a member of staff that Derek is surprised to find he recognises – the studious intern Harris favours, the pink tips of her hair fluttering behind her in a whirl of motion – and in no time at all, a pint of something is pushed into his hand.

The bar is crowded, with low lighting that gives everything a comfortable glow, and Derek admires it as he takes a sip of his drink, smiling at the fruity, rich taste of the ale.

Stiles was right; this place is good.

There’s a tap on his shoulder, and he glances back to find Stiles saying something, but it’s impossible to hear his voice over the loud thrum of conversation around them. Derek shakes his head helplessly and Stiles rolls his eyes, leaning in close until his breath hot against Derek’s ear.

“I said we should go and try to find some seats.”

They settle into a corner opposite the crowded bar, nabbing the two-seater chesterfield as its previous inhabitants make to leave. Derek catches Stiles’ eyes on him, contemplative as he fiddles with the edge of his straw, his teeth gnawing at his bottom lip. Derek shifts awkwardly under the scrutiny, before Stiles seems to realise what he’s doing and glances away, burying himself into his drink with a cough. There’s a pink tinge to his cheeks, and Derek raises a brow.

“What?”

“Nothing.” He shrugs, laughing a little nervously before he shifts around in his seat, facing Derek more fully. “I was just thinking. Our Glorious Leader seems to have twice the issue with you that he has with me.”

Derek closes his eyes, allowing himself to sink into his seat until his head rests against the low-rise back of the chair. “Harris is a psychopath.”

“I was just thinking that it could be, you know, your sparkling personality.”

Derek snorts into his drink, moving the glass away from his lips as he narrows his eyes at Stiles. “ _My_  sparkling personality?”

“Hey! I’ll have you know I’m a joy to be around.”

“That’s not exactly how I’d put it.”

“You love it, really.”

The harsher edges of his mood have smoothed down a lot since they arrived here, and Derek manages a smile. “I suppose I could be in worse company.”

“You’re fucking  _blessed_ to have me. Scott says I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to him.”

Derek glances at him, cocking a brow. “Your boyfriend, then.”

Stiles chokes on his beer, spluttering into his hands as he eyes Derek with something akin to horror. “ _Scott?_  Hell no. Yuck. Just friends.  _Best_ friends. Not that I don’t swing that way, because I do –both ways, equal opportunity here, but no.” He shakes his head vigorously, going for another sip of his drink before he freezes and shoots Derek an incredulous look. “Wait – are you implying that he only says that because we were- you  _bastard_.”

Derek hides his smile behind his glass as Stiles grumbles into his drink, shooting Derek a dirty look before he lashes out with an accusing finger.

“ _You_. You are not funny. You are not  _allowed_  to be funny.”

A laugh bursts out of Derek despite himself, and only laughs harder as Stiles half-heartedly jabs at him with an elbow.

By the end of the night, he thinks that maybe this day wasn’t so bad after all.

\--

It soon becomes a regular thing, a quick pint after work when work is rough, or when they have a spare hour. They talk about the future, Derek’s plans now that he’s graduated – a year, possibly, of working for the family business if his PhD applications don’t make it through – and Stiles’ class selections next semester.

Derek finds himself telling Stiles about his family, about the pressures of living in such a large household, of the competition he’s felt with his siblings. Stiles talks about his dad, and how being an only child was kind of lonely before he met Scott; smart, hapless Scott, with a heart of gold and love of animals. He mentions the pact they made to live together in college, and Derek almost questions again whether or not the two of them are dating, before the conversation turns to the strain of their relationship with the pre-med workload, and  _Allison_ , and Derek’s curiosity is sated.

Stiles is all fast hands, wild gestures and teasing half-smiles; all bursting energy and  _enthusiasm_. He’s dazzling, and in no-time at all, he’s wormed his way into Derek’s thoughts. Derek doesn’t realise the extent of his fixation, though, until a month later when he finds himself mentioning him to Laura.

She picks up on it, of course - Derek never mentions his colleagues, apart from Harris, whom he only refers to as ‘the Devil’ - and Derek only notices that he’s said anything when Laura asks him, faux-casual: “so, tell me more about this  _Stiles_.”

Derek feels as if his tongue is suddenly three times larger in his throat.

“He’s- a colleague.”

“Uh-huh.”

“A friend.”

“ _Right_.”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“Aww, Der-Bear, don’t be like that! Just bring him over next time you come down.”

“No- I just said-  _goodbye_ , Laura.”


	2. Part two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Near the end of the next month, Derek stops showing up at the lab.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drunken shenanigans. Seriously. College students.

Near the end of the next month, Derek stops showing at the lab.  
  
Stiles doesn't have his number, has no means of contacting him aside from a 'hey’ and ‘drink?’ that they toss around casually in the lab, and Derek - doesn't even have an online profile (or if he does, he's made sure it's private) and therefore Stiles can't contact him.  
  
Sir-tyrant is a lot less bearable without Derek there to share the load, or lighten the mood after a particularly bad encounter.  
  
Stiles deals. He _deals_ , and if his friends complain that it's all he talks about, and that Stiles should either make a move or move on - and yeah, Stiles would if he was still here.  
  
He's nursing a pint at Emmet’s and contemplating how much he hates his lab supervisor when a leather jacket drops heavily into the stool beside him. He glances up with a scowl to remind the intruder of the idea of _personal space_ , a-hole, when he finds himself face to face with none other than Derek fucking Hale.  
  
Derek _fucking_ Hale, wearing a grin so wide his cheeks _must_ be aching; who drops a hand on Stiles shoulder and squeezes.  
  
"This seat taken?"  
  
Struck dumb, all Stiles can do is shake his head and take a large gulp of his drink as Derek flags down the bartender and orders a pint and two shots of tequila.  
  
"Stiles, I can't believe I found you." He slams his card on the bar as the first round of drinks are carefully arranged in front of him, and it's only moments before one of the shots are slid his way. "Celebrate with me."  
  
Stiles has been a student long enough to know the answer to that question, even in these circumstances, and he puts aside his questions regarding the situation in favour of the sweet-and-sour promise of tequila. "Let's do this."  
  
Derek's grin is brilliant as they slam down the shots, and somewhere between his spluttering coughs - god, he'd forgotten how much tequila sucked - and Derek's heavy claps on the back while he orders another two, Sambuca this time, Stiles tries to ask: "so what are we celebrating?"  
  
"I recieved an offer for a PhD studentship within the department I completed my thesis with."  
  
Stiles sputters, staring wide-eyed at Derek as the _PhD candidate_ grins into his pint glass, a few rogue drops of lager trickling down his chin and dripping onto the beer mat below.  
  
"Holy shit."  
  
_Of course_. Derek had mentioned the interviews weeks ago, a fact that had completely slipped Stiles' restless mind as he had moped over Derek's absence. Derek's still smiling as he drains the first pint, his throat long and pale as he throws his head back to get the last of it, before slamming the glass back down with a satisfied sigh. "It's been a long week."  
  
Another pint is set in front of him without him even asking, the cute bar staff that had been busy ignoring most of the patrons the entire night offering Derek a rare smile before slinking off to the stairs at the opposite side of the counter to hide in the stock room. He raises his hand in a wave, before grabbing the shots and proffering the second towards Stiles. Stiles takes it with a wide grin.  
  
"Holy shit, Derek. Congratulations."  
  
Derek smiles warmly and bows his head.  "Thank you. I couldn't have done it without your help." He leans forward with intent, clinking glasses with Stiles. "This is for holding down the fort while I was busy. Working solo with Sir-asshole can't have been easy."  
  
"You have no idea."  
  
In reality, Stiles had only mostly done Derek's work, but he doesn’t need to mention that fact right now. Although, he must remember to come in at some point tomorrow to swap out the labels before Derek spots how he'd renamed his samples...  
  
Derek clinks his glass against Stiles' again, and his focus returns to the moment at hand, and Derek's gleaming smile as he perches on the counter beside him.  
  
"Bottoms up?"  
  
"Bottoms up!"  
  
\--  
  
Stiles wakes up in the early hours of the next morning with a dangerously roiling stomach and the driest mouth to ever have been had, by anyone. His head simultaneously feels like it's filled with cotton wool and being stabbed with fiery-hot knitting needles, the tips of which are stabbing just behind his eyes, and _ow_ , why did Stiles ever think starting a night off with Tequila would be a good idea?  
  
He twists his head further into the pillow, hoping to cushion the agonising throbbing mass that has become his head, but the movement only serves to disturb his already unsettled stomach, and he stifles a moan against his bedding.  
  
"Everything hurts."  
  
There's a rustle of sheets behind him, before a warm body presses closer, the arm that had been clinging loosely, unnoticed, around Stiles' chest flexing before falling slack.  
  
"Sssh. 'S too early."  
  
For the second time in the period of a few short hours, Stiles comes face-to-face with Derek _fucking_ Hale. His eyes are bleary and bloodshot and his face is pale, but despite the fact his hair sticking up in all directions, he still manages to look like as if he’s rolled out of a photo shoot.  
  
"Hey."  
  
His voice is warm, if a bit hoarse, as a sleepy smile sketches its way across his face, and they fall back into a comfortable silence, blinking sleepily at each other -- which, of course, Stiles breaks with a strangled sound. He barely has the chance to gasp - _"I think I'm going to barf"_ \- before he's crumpling in on himself, arms wrapped around his midsection.  
  
The look on Derek's face is priceless, though Stiles would appreciate the moment more if his stomach wasn't currently in the middle of trying to turn itself inside out.  
  
"Shit. Go. It's the second door on the left down the hall. _Run_."  
  
The next moment has Stiles stumbling down the hall in a run, lunging into the homely looking family bath just in time to empty the content of his stomach into the pink, ceramic toilet.  
  
Never again. That was it. No more spirits, no more beer. Wine would be allowed, but only because Stiles can't stand the stuff.  
  
Derek appears a short moment later, stumbling into the room with a clean towel and a glass of water, which he places by Stiles' side before retreating to the safety of the doorway. He's wearing the same sweater that he had on the night before - Stiles recognises the thumb holes, half-remembers laughing at them last night, and oh god, the shit that must have come out of his mouth - and it rides up as he yawns, stretching widely before settling his weight against the frame.  
  
"It's much nicer going down than it is coming back up, isn't it?"  
  
Stiles is startled into a cough, glancing up from his fascination with the way the sweater hugs Derek's torso, narrowing his eyes at Derek in a glare. Making fun of the sick person in his bathroom. Dick.  
  
"You can take all the blame for-" he gestures expansively at himself and the toilet seat he's currently cradling, " _this_."  
  
"It's not my fault some people just can't handle their liquor."  
  
Stiles scoffs weakly, grimacing at him over the edge of the toilet bowl. "You're going to be the worst kind of grad-student."  
  
His words have the opposite of their desired effect on Derek as he breaks into a wide, happy grin, all crinkled eyes and gleaming teeth, and god, he looks glorious.  
  
"I suppose we'll see."  
  
It's adorable, and it should annoy Stiles more that he can't sustain his anger for more than a moment with that look, but it does the trick. Managing a laugh at himself, Stiles gives Derek a weak smile.  
  
"You're an asshole."  
  
"Tell me that when you aren't curled up on the floor, making a mess of my bathroom." He takes a step closer, dropping to a crouch to rest a hand against Stiles back, palm warm even through the thin material of his shirt. "We left late last night when you started feeling unwell, and then we went to my place as it wasn't far from Emmet’s. How are you feeling?"  
  
Stiles reaches for the glass, downing its contents in three gulps before shuddering, and hovering over the toilet. He spends a moment assessing before he tosses back over his shoulder: "better. Although my mouth tastes like I’ve been chewing garbage."  
  
There's a rustle, before a heavy material drapes itself over his knees, and he glances back to see the clean towel Derek was carrying covering his lap. He mumbles a quick thanks, bundling the material up and tossing it over to the shower behind him; and this is when he notices that he's still wearing the same jeans from yesterday. It seems as if Stiles hadn't made a complete and utter fool of himself last night making a move that would have inevitably gotten him shot down faster than a lame buck in hunting season.  
  
He has mixed feelings about that. On the one hand, that would be an event he would definitely prefer to be sober for; on the other hand, he's not sure if he'll ever work up the courage without the liquid courage of alcohol.  
  
He must look ridiculous, hovering pensively over a toilet seat, and Derek smothers a laugh behind his fist as he adjusts his weight so he’s leaning back on his heels.  
  
"There’s a new toothbrush in the first drawer of the sink. Hop in the shower when you’re feeling strong enough. I won’t be far; I just need to dig around in my closet. I think I have some clothes that may be able to fit you. Yell if you need anything.”

\--

It takes Stiles another half an hour before he thinks he can support his own weight, slumping over the sink as he rinses the taste of bile and stomach acid from his mouth. He’s feeling moderately better when he finally makes it into the shower, and he spends the next ten minutes blinking up into the pounding water, and avoiding thinking about the fact that he is naked in Derek’s bathroom.

'Clothes' turn out to be borrowed gym gear which, due to the soft, worn nature of the fabric, Stiles suspects belonged to Derek during high school. They are devilishly comfortable, and Stiles wants to keep them forever.

When he exits the bathroom in a billowing cloud of steam that makes him feel as if he’s exited a dramatic fight-scene in a supernatural thriller, Derek’s bedroom – _bedroom_ – is empty, and he tells himself he _is not_ disappointed by the fact. He will _not_ make a big deal out of this.

The moment that Stiles catches the waft of bacon from down the hall, though, Stiles knows he is fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to my beta, ebk!


	3. Conclusions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And if Derek never asks for his clothes back and Stiles keeps on forgetting to bring it up so he can return them, then what’s the harm?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This contains the fluffiest, most ridiculous scene I think I've ever written. And I've written some pretty ridiculous scenes.
> 
> This is also finally complete! Enjoy the last part of this short excursion into this alternate universe. There may be some more added to this series, keep an eye out. (There is one deleted scene from this that may get posted later this week...)

Surely this is the part where Derek makes a move.

But Stiles looks exhausted, a worn-out smile on his face as he eats the breakfast that Derek prepared for him, and it’s as sweet as the one he’d been wearing when Derek had put him to bed, when he’d grabbed onto the sleeve of his Henley and told him it was ridiculous for him to leave when he could just _stay_.

(Derek had wanted to kiss him, then. He had no idea when exactly it happened, but at some point during their dates – _lab_ _drinks_ – he’d fallen, hard, and in that moment, it’d been difficult not to move that extra inch and press their lips together, wrap his arms around Stiles until they were touching anywhere and everywhere they could.

Instead, he’d followed the insistent tugging until he was lying down next to him, and taken Stiles’ hand when it slid down his own until their fingers were intertwined.)

Derek had missed him this past week, more than he thought he would. Stiles had been a persistent thought, lingering at the back of his mind when he should have been focusing on more important things, like his interview, and the paper the review panel had given him a week to prepare.

Now that he is here, in Derek’s front room, wrapped up in his old sports gear – he just wants to slide his arms around him, feel that crooked twist of his lips against his own.

But last night Stiles had been, for lack of a better way to put it, black-out drunk, and Derek doesn’t want to disrupt the easy, comfortable atmosphere. Or lose the happy, easy way Stiles looks at him over the rim of his coffee mug, all warmth and contentment. So he lets it go, lets himself enjoy the moment, here and now.

\--                                                                  
  
They have breakfast and Stiles leaves in Derek’s sweats with his cell number and a new toothbrush. He feels good – _this_ feels good. They’ve grown closer, and Stiles is enjoying this burgeoning friendship, these little moments where he cracks a joke that gets Derek to smile, to release the tension he always seems to carry with him and finally relax.

And if Derek never asks for his clothes back and Stiles keeps on forgetting to bring it up so he can return them, then what’s the harm?

Besides, Stiles has other things on his mind, and it doesn’t take long for life to take get in the way. By the end of the final month of Stiles’ internship, his best friend has bailed out on him at the last possible minute to move-in with his girlfriend, and Stiles is left in desperate need of another flatmate.

He’s on a short schedule – they need to sign the lease in like a _week_ – and by the time he and Derek meet up for their weekly drinking session, all thoughts of the other night have been buried by the stress of moving, and he’s about to ready pull his hair out. Derek takes one look at him and orders a double SoCo and lemonade, on the rocks, which Stiles immediately downs half of before cradling the glass to his head.

It works to somewhat ease the headache that has been plaguing him for _hours_ , and he’s so pleased that it takes him a moment to realise that Derek knows his favourite guilty pleasure. _Syrup and lemonade,_ Erica calls it.

He glances over at him, but he’s smiling at the bartender as she hands him his own drinks, and he figures it must have slipped out the other night. The one he tries not to think about, except before bed, and in the small hours of the early morning, and occasionally during a slow Sunday morning-

“Thanks.”

Derek turns to him and raises a brow, but its effect is negated by the fact his eyes are creased in a warm smile. “It’s not a problem. You looked like you needed it.”                                                                        

Stiles closes his eyes before he does something stupid, like _press a kiss to those creases_ , and presses the glass back to his temple with a muffled groan. “You have no idea.”

A warm hand encloses around his other hand where it’s laying on the bar, and Stiles cracks open an eye to see Derek squeeze his wrist gently, sending him a glance over his pint glass.

“Enlighten me.”

Stiles watches him for a moment, before dropping his head back onto the bar, groaning into the wood. Derek lets out a snort, but waits him out, idly swirling the ice around his glass until Stiles lets out a long breath, tilting his face towards him.

“We had someone drop out of our flat before we signed the lease. We need to sign the contract in three days, and we’ve had no luck finding a new person.” He sighs, scrubbing his hands across his face. “It’s a huge cluster fuck, basically.”

“Seems like it.”

Stiles lets out a groan, turning his face back into the bar. “I’m going to be homeless for the first few weeks of the semester. This _sucks._ ”

He lifts his head just long enough to down the last of his drink before dropping back down to the wood with a muffled ‘ _thunk’_. After a moment, a warm touch settles between his shoulder blades, radiating a comforting heat through the back of his shirt, and he glances up just in time to catch Derek’s wry smile.

“I think you’re going to need a few more of those.”

Derek’s already waved down the bartender, and before he’s even finished speaking, the glass is being taken from his hand and replaced with a new one. Stiles blinks at it, before glancing back to Derek, who raises a brow.

“What?”

“We’ve done this before. We both know the end result is _not_ pretty _._ ”

Derek gives him an impressive eye-roll before he leans back into his chair, the wood creaking beneath him. “I’ll cut you off before we even approach _'Bohemian Rhapsody'_ levels.”

He grins as Stiles shoots him a startled look, but before Stiles can ask how he could _possibly_ know about that, he redirects him by asking him another question.

"So, how long is the lease?”

“Twelve months, paid at the beginning of each month. It’s a big commitment to make with people you don’t know, so I can’t blame people for not signing up.”

Derek looks contemplative, fingers tapping lightly against his drink before he downs it, dropping it back down onto the bar with a clatter. “And you said you live in walking distance from campus?”

“Yeah.” Stiles pauses, eyes narrowed suspiciously as Derek he flags down the bartender and orders another drink. He waits until the glass is in his hands, though, and Derek’s attention has moved away from his drinks before he asks: “ _why?_ ”

Derek's expression is neutral, but the small twitch at the edge of his mouth gives him away as he meets Stiles' gaze, raising an eyebrow. “How much is the room?”

Stiles finally levers himself upright, leveling Derek with a piercing stare as he struggles to quash the impossible spark of incredulous hope that stirs within his chest.

“Are you- are you seriously considering this?”

Derek just lifts his shoulders in a shrug, before breaking into a grin that completely shatters his composure. “Sure. My studio lease runs out soon, and I'm not really eager to renew it. It’s – been an experience, living by myself, but I come from a big family. I’ve missed the company."

“I- Jesus. My other flatmates are _great._ Erica and Boyd keep to themselves; they’re barely in the apartment. Isaac is shy, you’ll never hear a peep from him, I promise.”

“So you’d fill the noise quota?”

Derek’s eyes twinkle with good humour as Stiles startles into a laugh, smirking into his glass as Stiles throws a hand over his mouth to muffle the sound. He looks so incredibly smug that Stiles narrows a glare at him, trying to mean it - _really_ \- but Derek is unrepentant, lifting a shoulder as if to ask ‘ _what?_ ’

“I’ll have you know, I’m a _joy_ to live with.”

“So you’ve said before.” Derek snorts out a laugh, eyes crinkling into a smile once more before his expression sobers, and he leans in towards Stiles, his gaze intent as he scans Stiles' features. “I'm serious, though. Email me a copy of the lease and give me a time to drop by. I’ll check the place out.”

Stiles’ smiles softens and he ends up watching Derek for several moments, considering. He's a little disappointed with himself when he ends up testing Derek's expression for the hallmarks of a lie; it's a habit - a bad one - that he's picked up as a consequence of being the Sheriff's son, needing to know for  _sure_ whether or not someone was telling the truth or just messing with him.

But Derek - Derek appears to be sincere, in every way that Stiles knows how to check. Or he's at least in possession of an impressive poker face, one that has not previously made itself known in the time Stiles has known him - not even when Derek had tried and failed to convince Harris that they'd always had one less embryo dish, and no, one was _not_ missing -- and it quickly becomes clear that Derek is _serious_.

Stiles could kiss him. (He really wants to.)

Instead, Stiles leans forward and presses in closer, the distance between them disappearing rapidly as Derek mimics the movement, although he doesn't think Derek is aware of what he is doing. He makes sure he has Derek’s full attention, driven by the irresistible urge to hear him say it. “Are you sure about this?”

Derek’s expression is warm as he considers Stiles, his lips tilted into a soft smile as his gaze flickers across Stiles' features. It's close and intimate, and Stiles can feel the rush of air against his cheek when he exhales, see the flicker of pink as he wets his lips. It's a struggle, but he manages (somehow) to drag his eyes back up to Derek's just in time to hear him say, “of course. I wouldn't offer if I wasn't."

Stiles doesn't kiss him, but he does promise him his first born, and it's worth it to hear Derek laugh.

\--

It’s only later, after Derek has made an offer on the room and Stiles has to bite his lip to prevent himself from saying anything stupid and flirty, that Stiles realises his mistake.

In the process of gaining a new flatmate, he’s managed to make it _impossible_ for him to make a move on the most brilliant, adorable, crush-worthy grad student in existence.

He really can’t bring himself to feel bad about it, though.

 

**Author's Note:**

> find me on my [tumblr](http://abetaperspective.tumblr.com)


End file.
